


You're Starting to Bore Me, Baby

by Ozymanreis



Series: Tumblr Drabbles [36]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, M/M, Passive-aggression, Rejection, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 07:13:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1931526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozymanreis/pseuds/Ozymanreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now it's three in the morning and I'm trying to change your mind,<br/>Left you multiple missed calls and to my message you reply,<br/>"Why'd you only call me when you're high?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Starting to Bore Me, Baby

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt #60: Rejection
> 
> Not exactly a songfic, but the plot is based entirely on the Arctic Monkeys', "Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High?"

Sherlock wakes up thrashing. It's dark, he sees nothing, the shadows of his visions still ghosting through the inky blackness. 

 _That dream again._ His head is throbbing. _Standing there, unable to solve the case… he just laughs._ A perfect image of that dark blue Westwood haunting his eyelids. Sherlock has no recollection of the past six hours, maybe even the last _day_. Shivering and feeling mildly damp, he tries to fish for the blankets on his bed. 

He only gropes air. 

Blanching from the lack of familiarity, Sherlock is stunned to realize he isn't at Baker street. _Where am I?_

Slowly, he begins to piece together a picture: he was damp from a thin layer of sweat. He's not home, but in an abandoned loft on the outskirts of town. It felt vaguely familiar, though he was completely alone this time. Blinking, he realizes his mental fog was the result of coming down from drugs, _How did I get here?_ _What did I even take? How much?_

 _Heroine._ He feels his elbow joint, _Two injection marks._

His brain was absolutely useless when he searched for more than these simple deductions. Rummaging through his trousers' pockets (his coat is currently AWOL), he finds only his mobile. 

 

**One Missed call: M.**

 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, _Jim never calls me. We usually text._ He coughs, feeling a bit ill from his evening (day?), suppressing a wave of nausea. _I'll see what he wants when I get back… whenever that is._

Disoriented, probably not entirely detoxed, Sherlock wanders his way out of the building. The sky was a strange kind of darkness — either very early in the morning, or the beginning of the night. Apathy as to the time pervaded his body, a wave of nausea readying under his stomach. 

It takes more than an hour to walk back to the flat, occasionally stopping to wheeze and dry heave. Thankfully Mrs. Hudson has long since gone to bed, so she doesn't notice Sherlock enter, nor the slovenly state of his appearance. His feet feel like they've been given concrete shoes, plodding gracelessly to his washroom. 

The mirror reflected something not quite Sherlock-looking: dirty, mussed up hair, t-shirt and casual sweats. He decides to take a shower before he proceeds with his day — if it even _is_ day, _Well, I'm awake, aren't I?_

Though, he isn't sure he was so much "sleeping" as "tripping." He glances at his phone again, setting it down on the sink, wondering how to open a new conversation. 

Stepping in the shower, the warm water runs over him for almost ten minutes before he realizes he hadn't taken his clothes off. _Thought I was feeling too heavy…_ He undresses sloppily, leaving a wet pile in the tub when he's done. He doesn't bother to find new clothes, electing to wander to his bedroom in a towel. 

Crawling into his bed, Sherlock finally contacts Jim, hoping he wouldn't fall asleep before he got a response. He wasn't particularly fatigued, but his body felt strung-out and overwrought. 

 

**You rang? -SH**

 

**You called six times, honey. Seemed important. -JM**

 

 _I did?_ Sherlock can't remember, but assumes it must've happened while he was out of his mind. Flipping through his outgoing calls, he confirmed Jim's numerical analysis. Yet, he seemed to have deleted his call timers. 

 

**Did you answer any of them? -SH**

 

**The first, but you were babbling something incoherently about bees. I listened for about ten minutes, then hung up. I don't think you noticed for a while. You tried calling back a few times. But after the sixth, you abruptly stopped. Got a bit worried you overdosed. -JM**

 

**Probably, but I don't recall. I seem fine now. -SH**

 

**Alright. -JM**

 

After twenty minutes without a follow-up response, Sherlock felt something awry — Jim liked to continue conversations. _And terse answers do not a conversation make._ Taking initiative, mostly out of curiosity, Sherlock pursues:

 

**I imagine it's because I wanted to see you. -SH**

 

**How sweet. -JM**

 

**Have I offended you? -SH**

 

**Hmm. I think not. -JM**

 

**Don't lie. -SH**

 

**Well… do you want to see me now? -JM**

 

**Your company is never unwelcome. -SH**

 

**If that's all, then I'd best be getting to bed. -JM**

 

**It's unlike you to decline an invitation. -SH**

 

**Have you checked the time? I have a meeting at noon, I should rest. Clarity and all. -JM**

 

Actually, Sherlock _hadn't_. He'd hidden the timestamps on his texts, and wasn't particularly focused on the screen so much as the rapid-fire replies, _Three in the morning… yet my day has only begun._

But he knows what's to come: once the lingering solution has worked its way out of his system, he's in for a long, agonizing bout of withdrawal. In fact, he was beginning to feel the absolute _dread_ that preceded it. He said a silent thank you to Mrs. Hudson for replacing the trash bag in his small bin.

 

**That's never stopped you before. Something is wrong. -SH**

 

**Perhaps your antics are starting to bore me, Sherlock. -JM**

 

**I thought you loved watching me dance. -SH**

 

**I did. But your constant demands wear on me. -JM**

 

**Oh, excuse me. Didn't mean to take advantage of your endless kindness. -SH**

 

Jim scowled at the dripping sarcasm, and almost didn't reply. _If he were a client, I'd have him executed on the spot._ But alas, Sherlock still had a grip on his heart, driving him to irrational, counter-productive outbursts of emotion.

 

**You mock, but tell me, have you been bored for more than a few days since we began the flirting? -JM**

 

**Here I thought it was all unintentional. -SH**

 

 **Complex murders, elaborate break-ins, interconnected schemes to turn the free world on its ear — I do everything for you, Sherlock.** **Just to see you smile. And to what end? You. Still trashing your mind on opiates the second I turn around. -JM**

 

**I didn't ask you to "fix it" for me, Dear Jim. -SH**

 

**Well, congrats, pet, I quit. -JM**

 

**Don't be like that. You know I'm grateful. -SH**

 

**[Ten minutes, no response]**

 

**I find you very stimulating. -SH**

 

**[Another ten]**

 

**The closest thing I have to love, I imagine. -SH**

 

**I hardly believe you appreciate it. Or me, for that matter. -JM**

 

**Why do you say that? -SH**

 

Jim had grown exponentially more disinterested in the barrage of meaningless swill Sherlock would profess when he was stoned. Ramblings about insects he could take, but every now and then an "I love you" or a "my life would be meaningless without you" would sneak it's way in to the rapport, only to have the detective remember none of it the next day. 

Of course, these things were _true_ , but Sherlock had given no indication that he consciously acknowledged them sober. _It's less and less cute each time, my dear,_ Jim sighs, _I'd be fine with it if you said it even once in person._ But he is not a man of optimism and wishful (deceitful) thinking. 

The response stings, but Sherlock cannot deny the validity of it:

 

**Why do you only call me when you're high? -JM**

 

Dumbstruck, Sherlock has no answer. At least, no _good_ answer. He sets the phone down as he watches the walls crawl, letting every illusion his tormented mind could come up with seep through. 


End file.
